


The Never Ending Adventures of BBop & Streamline

by CybertronianBeing



Series: The Never-Ending Adventures of BBop & Streamline [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Amica Endurae, Bathing/Washing, Blood and Injury, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, F/F, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Pain, Past Abuse, Post-Battle, Returning Home, Seekers, Separation Anxiety, Space Battles, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Transformers Spark Bonds, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:42:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28552548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CybertronianBeing/pseuds/CybertronianBeing
Summary: BBop: Blue & Sunset Wrecker with rediculous ambition, a serious love for music, faith to move mountains, and a knack for strength (and making people laugh).Streamline: Red & Cyan Triple-Changer Seeker; the name of the game is speed, endurance, and discipline.What do they have in common? Nearly nothing. However, they were designed to complete each other, like perfect puzzle pieces to mend together a dastardly divided universe.OR one shots featuring our favorite amica endurae CLOWNS.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock (Transformers) & Original Character(s), Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet, Jazz/Prowl (Transformers), Original Cybertronian Character(s)/Original Cybertronian Character(s), Ratchet (Transformers) & Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Never-Ending Adventures of BBop & Streamline [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2163519
Kudos: 1





	1. Gentle Servos (Injury)

**Author's Note:**

> HEY HEY HEY CRACKHEADS we r back @ it againnnnnn.  
> be sure to follow bbop.in on insta for art of our fave wrecker and seeker amicas as well as some of the other coolest transformers art on the planet,,,
> 
> Streamline and BBop belong to Baydn and I,, please do not use without permission! we do not own Transformers or any of Hasbro's properties, just the original characters!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slow the poison, burn the victim, save her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JIST AN FYI THEY KINDA HAVE A BORDERLINE LOVER AMICA RELATIONSHIP IF U COULDN'T TELL,,,

BBop knew they were screwed over just about the moment the predacon showed up to rain on their little parade. Its screeching roar made her wince and duck her helm like she could shield her audials from the penetrating soundwaves by stooping below two inches of air molecule. 

Taking hold of a member of their squad in its lock-jaws, the frame effortlessly snapped in the fanged jaws, and the rows and rows of following dentas screamed for more.

Streamline zeroed in on it pretty quickly, realizing the small little critters and creatures basically foaming out the rock were probably less important. However, the wrecker seemed to be a bit tied down so she kept a sharp optic on the seeker who took to the dark sky. Up and away from the bloodstained butte face, she relied on her altmode's miniguns to take care of what her past responsibility was and focus resources on the new guest. 

Should’ve known. 

Sky and sunset kicked herself  
pretty hard later as she set Streamline down gently for a moment, staring helplessly while a doctor flicked the knob to get the water leaning closer towards scalding than just hot. Somehow missing the mark between suddenly boiling and manageable, well, in her terms. 

They did say it’d need to be very hot but she didn’t exactly want to burn the protoformic mesh off of Streamline’s body, either. The hope was that it would cool slightly in the next mere moments. 

Dabbing her hand into it, already wincing, she shook her helm, “No way, dude. That’s not gonna work.”

“Either cool it and watch her chances of survival drop ninety-five percent or trust the professionals,” He said, sprinkling some powdery substance she didn’t even want to ask about into the water. 

“Some professional you are,” all she got was a squinty staredown and a optic-roll. 

“Indeed,” he set the rest of the supplies on the floor next to a towel, “Don’t delay. I promise, all it will do is stop the poison.”

“And burn the hell out of her.”

The winged beast that towered at least three BBops tall deflected ammo from aerial miniguns like it wasn’t anything. Its armor like a turtle shell without the need to hide, BBop was positive she felt a pang of frustration though their bond shared wide open, immediately knowing a new tactic would be involved pretty soon. 

Small little creepy crawlies nipped at BBop’s armor and nibbled away paint like scraplets of their home planet. 

Too bad they weren’t in Kansas anymore. 

All was in place. After the water in the tub settled, BBop didn’t want to wait. The venom would spread not unlike her anxiety. Waiting would only hurt her more, and she’d do anything even if it meant going through hell and back, to keep them both from the clutches of death that groped for them in the darkness that was their very own lifecycles' adventure. 

Constellation, come to find out later that’s what his name was, wasn’t any old predacon, and every Autobot on that foreign planet could tell even if they were the average joe with no actual biological observation experience. 

His color scheme or pattern didn’t match original designs or keep tabs the same with body shape like his brothers and sisters in the species. Army green, a sickly blue, and gray protoform peeking through armored scales grinned at all of them like separate creepy smiles of bloodlust and vertical eyes of covet. 

Similar to Earthen shrews, Constellation possessed abilities to transfer venom not only through a bite but also through his claws and sharp quills. Pit, the predacon’s spine produced and stored the toxin, too. 

Until diagnostics were run by the more processor-oriented ‘Bots onboard, no one knew that for sure.

Distracting the predacon wasn’t a horrible idea, and her barrel chain guns could take out some of the grounders’ problems. Apparently the mechanical dragon wasn't a particular fan of that and took flight after her with mighty beats of his wings. 

Bank right. 

Corkscrew. Increase altitude. 

Exhale. Evade. 

With little effort, the bliss of flight and confidence of the wind leaked through the bond and BBop then made short work of the dark energon parsed creatures in her immediate area. Bullets mowed down in front of their squadrons’ optics and the battle finally began to lean in Autobot favor. 

A few cheered, a few scoffed. Wondering seemingly aloud why some other seekers, including the red jet, hadn’t taken to the skies for support earlier. 

“Oh stop your complaining,” —Whoa! BBop shot down a particularly springy organism behind another member not far from her, “Behind you.”

It was in those moments, when she stargazed into the intergalactic sky that she wished so badly to have a seeker ability to fly alongside Streamline. Nothing more than just to be beside her, but the wrecker could only stare at their movements against the burning stars’ background canvas. 

She couldn’t take her optics away. 

A blur of transforming logistics and intricate gears after an afterburner throw sent Streamline over the predacon’s out jutting helm. Landing in a heap of scraping claws to slow herself, she balanced on the shiny scaly back, stretched servos for stability like she was walking the wire. 

High pitched roar rendered the creature squirming and erratically losing altitude in an attempt to shake the parasite. 

Instability rendered her to tumble at the mercy of gravity and catch one of the spines that raced delicately down Constellation’s scaly back dangerously. A similar blade-like quill ripped ahold of her side at the right hip. Immediately evaluating the extents of her injuries, she took stock of the shallow but heavy energon draw. 

Pain rippled lightly, but there was too much endorphins and adrenaline to notice anything more. Her energon stained his quill and trickled down the side of her pede slowly, dragging its ugly hands down her armored protoform. From below, BBop cringed. Although she couldn’t see, she could feel the drag of the spine. 

“Stream,” crackled over the line.

“Kinda busy at the moment.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Pay attention to your own battle,” although the tone was sharp, there was still concern behind it. “Is everything going okay down there?”

“We’ve got it under control,” and after that, the seeker allowed the ping to idle in the back of her processor, her sparkbeat picking up and coursing more adrenaline she was thankful for. Dashboard screaming at her to at least stave off the new bleeding and alerting her of lacerations—that she somehow hadn’t even noticed before—littering her wings. Warnings worried her, but the pain wasn’t bad enough on the armored carbon fibre to worry her to fuss over potentially prevent her from flying. 

Hopefully, anyway. 

Shutting up the dashboard and forcing new confidence through the bond, she gripped a handful of scales and dug claws through into vulnerable protoform. He screeched, a shiver wracking his airborne frame with pain and unwanted annoyance. With a one-servoed anchor, she drew her sword and like a pooling valley the roar returned louder, this time in writhing pain as the seam drug itself down his back.

Sinking, ripping flesh squelched through in a violent attempt to slay, the creature corkscrewed through the increasingly cold and grey air in attempt to rid itself of pain. Reinforcements arrived, bringing a smile to Streamline’s dermas as she continued towards the tail, drawing all kinds of black energon life-blood to flood away and off. 

She reached inside the newly created wound and yanked line after line she could discover out and drew more and more blood. Cover fire pelted with a fiery pinging rain. Like a potentially harmful wakeup call, that was her time to take her leave. Jumping up, her sure footing lost, she still found her way up towards the bobbing head, staring down a tall rock face she was no doubt gonna be crushed and scraped off pretty quickly against soon.

She caught an optic and stared into it with her two fuschia springs. The wing beats seemed to slow, the constellations passing slower along with she and Constellation battling mentally for mere moments. Bullets embedded themselves inside the huge gash she created. A beautiful creature, Streamline acknowledged and took hold of one of the horns he sported and found one of his vents below his chin with her sword edge and buried it the full length. 

The landing came to be less than fun, though, but not horrible. Everything angrily shifted, aggravated again. By new transformation her wings irritated her, the landing far from graceful but she still landed on her pedes, watching the predacon nosedive and crash land in a cloud of great dust. 

A sigh forced itself from her black-covered body and she doubled over, finally the sticky burning of foreign substance bothering the cut on her side that was still actively bleeding. Cringing, she tried to...sort of...okay she didn’t know what she was doing, but she tried to wipe it up with her cupped servo, biting her tongue when she felt close to it. 

A medical staff professional yelled something incohesive from afar, sprinting faster than she’d seen Ratchet run after them after escaping the medbay check. She thought it was sort of a mech voice but because of the new ship, new squadron, same insignia, she didn’t know the name and was convinced BBop probably didn’t really know either. Favoring her side, she ventured towards the ship, where the medical professional emerged from.

The world slowly began to return, easily, lightly. In little splish-splashes of pain from different places. Like sundrops, she often compared it to, red hot sundrops that increased their temperature until they scalded. Waring off the energon was a...weird phenom’.

A blur of wild blue sprinting wrecker piqued over the heaping mesa from behind the steep incline and met her there, cringing, zeroing in on the wound directly on her side, “You need to get back to the ship—” and insert as many colorful language words as you’d like inside that sentence. A rough dip and grab and Stream’ bit back a whimper, quite unready for the jostling. 

Hip stinging, she gripped on to the armor on BBop’s chest tightly. “Why’s everyone freaking out? Why're you losing your processor?”

“That predacon’s blood and toxins are poisonous and could be running their course through your lines right now,” BBop broke into a trot and then a pretty awkward run, given she couldn’t use her arms, but made quick time. “The doctors don’t even know the blood got into your wounds, they just were worried. Speculating.”

She may already be dead, courses through her processor, the med staff’s indifferent demeanor haunting every fragment of her. Like somehow her lifeline was just another statistic, another loss. As if Prime’s apathy for each soldiers’ life wasn’t enough.  
Just what they need: another mecha claiming what life was or wasn’t lost before it had seemingly even begun. Another making some damn assumption about what life was or was not important without batting an optic to discovering who they really were. 

The only ones that deserved to die in the two femme’s optics were those of poor spark, those who treated others poorly with full intention. And even then they deserved second chances, too. 

Optimus Prime instilled that in them. 

After climbing the drawgate to the ship and pushing past several also carrying the wounded, she paused in the ship’s very small medbay. They explained what to do, BBop unable to miss the panicked look she received from the doctor. At first they offered to help, themselves, but the stiffen in her tired and sore servos caused her to shake her helm. They’d need to explain and BBop would do what was necessary herself. 

Ginger hands waited until the room was vacant save for themselves to help remove the bloodstained armor from the weakening protoform. Although kind and gentle servos aided, she made haste. The grimy pile of armor that wasn’t even recognizable as red anymore already made its own puddle on the floor and BBop cringed, resolving to figure that out later. 

Streamline whimpered when BBop picked her blackened, feather-light body off of the floor, a particular dizziness settling in the air that made her sick and nauseous. The stressing clamor Stream’ had for her, the way she slunk away sent shivers down BBop’s spine regardless of the steam crawling through the air. 

They were offered a more separate room with one of the only tubs they possessed on the entire ship, and it was secluded with a door, which had already been shut. There wasn’t any need for worse anxiety by bringing more doctors or weird nosy afts. 

Gently laying her into the water, BBop’s immediate instinct was to grab Streamline’s servos to keep her from biting down on them, an old habit she was trying to break. They already were worse for wear, the consequence for her attempt to anchor herself down through sharp and pearly scales. Sometimes the claws...did come in handy. At a price. 

Tears immediately formed in the seeker’s optics about when the wingbases found the water’s fiery sword edge, and everything attacked at once. A scream escaped and she dug into the sides of the tub and into BBop’s forearms in some feeble adrenaline outpour. 

BBop held her down faithfully, shaking her helm at how primus-condemned hot that water was. Her armor and protoform were a bit thicker and durable, yes, but it was downright uncomfortable. 

“Shh, Stream, Stream. Relax, shh, you’ve gotta relax. I know it really hurts but we’ve gotta get the toxicity to slow down and stop, alright? That means it’s gonna hurt. Relax, relax,” switching to holding both of her servos by the wrist with one hand, BBop took to cupping her face and wiping her tears with the other, awaiting the din of pain to subside, and the room to quiet. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

“H-h-hurts, BBop—” She barely choked, feeling even more sick to her tank at the sight of the dark swirling melting pot she sat in. 

“I know, I know. Shhh, save your strength, we’ve gotta get you washed out and then we can go rest, how does that sound?”

“Manageable.” 

Manageable, BBop could work with. That meant she wasn’t willing to give up yet, which she herself wasn’t ready to, either. 

On her knees beside the tub with one servo holding the bar of slippery whatever-the-heck-they-gave-her-to-wash-predacon-poison-out-of-Streamline’s-wounds and the other servo holding her down at the tank, nothing was able to make the entire ordeal any less miserable. Hot pain like something more than just drops and more like a full-protoform blaze attacked as if she’d laid in the middle of a forest fire for an eternal nap. 

Maybe enough water from her optics would’ve been able to put out the blaze, but no matter how much Streamline did the temperature seemed not to drop an ounce. She distracted herself from BBop’s work by studying her pretty optics and intricate designs. 

Everytime she would look at the wrecker, she could notice some new detail that could send her loving her more every single time. 

There couldn’t have been anything more special than the femme before her. 

Easy going digits felt around the injured hip and Streamline stifled a cry and prayed nothing else would dare touch the tender welt, but the femme that usually used those hands to hold and protect fireworked pain as she ran that sharp—almost like sandpapery texture—in and out of the inflamed lash nearly roughly. 

Dark water sloshing but she kept the seeker very still, quiet apologies tumbled from the Wrecker’s mouth through screams of protest and intentions of escape.  
“I’m sorry...I’m so sorry, Stream’.”

Strong servos kept the malice at bay and bit back her own sorrow and near-unwillingness to hear those agony-woven cries. Finally, she pulled back, throwing the cleaner on the floor and grabbed ahold of the lightly shaking shoulders, evidenced by the cries of pain she couldn’t keep away. 

The lull in the pain, the calm in the storm was something they both needed, and BBop’s hands clamored to hold her head and trace down the back of her neck and across the hard-sealed windows of her cockpit. 

“You were so brave, I’m so proud. You did well, sweetspark. Breathe, breathe. The worst is over, it’s alright now.”

Shaky sobs subsided into her neck, the woodsmoke scents overwhelming her senses, the bond flooding with pride and love all combining into one to subdue the cries associated. 

Only silent tears accompanied the rest, the pain more of a fraction. Her wings’ sensitivity protested against the lacerations littering the thin fibre like an ugly mauling, but nothing too bad. BBop hummed a sweet tune that Streamline swore she recognized but couldn’t quite place it in the haze that was the situation itself. 

A few pauses for gentle embraces and BBop felt for the drain and pulled it, finally ridding them of the still-extremely hot water for good, and she was thankful. Both of them were. 

She cringed at the newly resurfacing protoform belonging to her amica, the heat taking its toll and turning the soft mesh into something from her nightmares. 

Even then, at the same time, she thanked Primus. It could’ve been worse, and from the few things she’d heard, if the toxins had already run their course, she’d be treating a corpse. 

Removing the little handle resembling a shower head for rinsing, she turned the stream to a very cool temperature and held her hand over the rather hard-spraying to allow it to just fall through her digits on top of her helm to wash away the rest of the black on Streamline to reveal actual gray rather than energon blue or predacon poison.

The cold soothed irritated skin and Streamline welcomed it with open servos even if her side and wings whispered their protests. Quite frankly, she didn’t care what they had to say. There was just...relieved bliss. 

Everything else could (and should) just shut up. 

Well, not BBop. 

Anything and everything...but her. 

Abandoning the water to spray into the bottom of the silvery container, BBop took the soap they’d provided (but would’ve rathered use at least her own lavender scented one from their temporary quarters, mind you, but that’s beside the point) and tenderly started from the tippy top of Streamline’s helm and worked her way down to get out the rest of the grime and potential blood. 

Tracing her shoulders and the parts of her wings she didn’t clean out to avoid farther irritation, she worked down her sides, still humming the same artist from earlier, an Earthen favorite, to pass the time and keep the other at ease. 

Next, she rolled bubbles over the midriff and followed to the opposite hip, tracing down the thighs and tensed calves—not unlike the rest of her frame—all the way down to her pedes. 

Another long, cold rinse consisting of the removal of bubbles and BBop’s mild touch and no part of the seeker was missed, and she felt better already save for the annoying bother of stinging pain. 

Clearly neither were in any sort of hurry, and BBop knew the process wasn’t something to do so. Still on her knees on the floor, she sat on her heels and gathered a sopping gray form into her lap and held her, considerately toweling dry the non-inflicted parts of her, giggling as she intentionally covered Stream’s face, much to her huffing annoyance. 

At least some of her personality was saved.  
Fleeting, soft kisses on the areas of her protoform that were dried one by one rendered her feeling as though the old, old scars and the new ones alike were okay. It left her feeling okay altogether, as if those lips had some supernatural ability to heal what was broken.  
It’d be a lie if she said they didn’t.

Up her arms, light neck cable nibbles and temple kisses brought a certain blustery breeze to the room, and the burned skin still aching was put to a bit more rest as the moments went on. They were just...benevolent. Brought some sort of dozing tiredness. Made her slack as they trailed her chest like a fleeting dream or blooming flower, traced lower and lower until the curled up state she was in in BBop’s lap didn’t permit it anymore. 

Sleepy desires overtook the smaller of the two and while BBop waited with her tired backplates against the wall with a heap of frame in her servos, she watched tired optics doze away from exhaustion, eyeing the steroid shot she’s supposed to give over there on the floor...she realized that’ll make everything even more drowsy. She needed the wounds to air out first anyway, before she could lather them up with antibacterial and bandage shut. 

A doze and a half later for the wrecker, too, and she shook Streamline awake to administer the toxin-fighting shot and was...unnerved to say the least. 

There were no protests and just a silent nod, very uncharacteristic but also understandable. The rewritten amica coding automatically made it to where it was always worth to trust the other, and this meant to trust BBop had her best interests. Cool.

Wrapping a completely airtight bandage around her midsection through the winces and groans of the other, she finished with taping her wings completely around the entire stretches of them and then taping up Streamline’s servos and they were good to go back to their temporary quarters. 

Some ass-endeavor for some damned good-for-nothing training and recon, BBop though very nearly aloud but didn’t as she strode through the halls with a wrapped up Streamline in her servos, probably about half asleep and going faster in some distant dream. 

Scoff. Speed demons.

The hope of hers was probably that that all was merely a dream. BBop wished it was. 

Moving the curtain to their shared quarters with three other bunks mostly shared by two in each berth, they wiggled into the bottom berth that they’d claimed in the back corner of the room farthest from the door and curled into each other innately, as if they’d done it all their lives or something.

Wait. They have.

Like the moon embracing a star lovingly, Stream’s knees curled around the front of BBop’s own while the taller of the two spread their blanket brought from home over the both of them. Although her light burns pulsated at the touch of her amica, there was no place Streamline would rather be than in the servos of BBop.

No matter how bad it hurt. 

A stretching servo found her chest rather than her tank this time around and the seeker kissed it gently and intentionally.


	2. Never Again (Fluff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Separation anxiety plagues the two borderline amicas...its finally time to end their separation...and hope it never happens never again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JAJFJAJJFJAJFJKAJFJ THEY R SO CUTE HELP MEEEEEEE

Today’s the day. Two weeks of anxiety attacks, less than optimal hydration and eating habits, and nearly no sleep, they’d finally made it. 

Ratchet was ready, too. They were a mess, from what he saw from the one side and heard from the other, it was a HORRENDOUS idea to separate them two. BBop couldn’t focus on the mission or take care of herself well enough to stay functional and Streamline aligned herself with that, too. 

No comms between the soldiers. It made sense, but if they were going to separate two ‘bots who had separation anxiety bad enough to affect them to that extent, he’d have to file an appeal on their behalf. Another two weeks and it’d be ridiculously bad for their health and functions. He’s a trained medical professional. He can be trusted to make those decisions. 

They had to bend the rules just so BBop could find her bearings on the transport before they were deployed on another planet’s mission. 

Not gonna work long-term. What happens when they both have to go on missions at the same time for months on end? Autobot higher-ups will not be happy to be forced to place them differently than plan.

It really made no sense to him, actually, that they hadn’t gotten the memo that 1. They were better fighters together regardless of their 2. Trauma given to them by their time served in the Decepticon ranks. And 3. It surprised even him that this whole separation reaction was a jumpscare to him, too. He should’ve known they weren’t ready to be separated when they’d remained attached at the hip for years. 

Idiots. Him included, for not seeing this was a horrible idea. 

The sprint only reiterated what he already knew. 

BBop broke through the other soldiers being dropped off back at the base. She pushed through them all, gently, as to not completely bulldoze them. As non-violently as she could, at least. Nothing could separate her from the other. The Red Sea began to part for her automatically, then and she didn’t hesitate to take what she could get. 

She saw a blue painted wingtip perk through the growing slit of light pouring into the ship as the ramp lowered for them to exit, and before it descended on the ground she was moving quicker. Quicker than the speed of light or at least the speed of that light. 

Streamline broke into the run at her, moving about as quick as she would when competing at the academy. Short steps lengthened into longer strides, their shortening distance causing the spark to grow fonder. 

Every feeling of positive nature bubbled over their sparks like an overboiled pot of water, their tears all but uncontrollable. Streamline’s wings flitted happily, BBop’s smile warming her from the inside out. 

BBop hadn’t been able to wait for any longer. The telecommunication they were allowed was limited to one fleeting moment, a reassurance that they were fine. She didn’t want to eat during the mission, didn’t sleep, couldn’t focus on what she was being told. Couldn’t remember patterns she generally had no issue following. 

She felt pathetic, wanted to be able to handle herself on her own, but obviously the other was feeling the same thing, BBop acknowledged that. It wasn't just her. That made her feel a little better, of sorts. Not that she wanted to do it again—not that she was crying, the joy springing forth from her very core at the sight of the red, the cyber blue. 

Weight slammed into her front, servos linking around her neck at top speed, but she was ready. Secretly, BBop nodded, impressed, Stream’d managed to push her back a few feet with the force. 

“Hey BBop!!”

“Hey lightweight.”

“Why’d you get pushed back so far today?” It was mostly a joke. 

“You’re just so strong,” 

...also a joke.

“Why do you feel so much lighter, stupid?” 

“Same reason I anticipate you couldn’t brace yourself against the mighty force of my hug.”

“Let’s just...never do that again.”

“Definitely never again.”


	3. Ceilings & Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their brutal beating, they find solace and rest.

Crumpled in heaps of...not their armor, color save for the broken pieces protruding from their protoforms, they stared. Their bare forms awaited the next, new pain.

Perhaps they dreamed of being plunged in ice cold water so the fiery clutches of their wet and slimy energon-covered bodies. Life-blood sat at the back of their throats like a death grip and they swallowed it down only for it to spill out from somewhere else. 

Warm liquid soothed scratchy vocalizers, completely nonfunctional after their own agony snuffed them out. 

The ceiling above, in which they fixed their blank gazes, was pretty enough. The stars were beyond. So was heaven, or something like heaven. Release. No more fire. 

Taking to ceiling studying became a favorite pastime for the two of them those past few hours. Droning on, there wasn't much else to do. Sweet relief came when Tarn and the other's voices rose up an amount more, in stupidly laced conversation. In distraction.

That meant the newer forms of pain slammed to a halt. 

Crossbeams and a curvy, random roof certainly interested them more than the face-plates of their captors. 

Captors? Too light a description. Too kind. All too easy a verdict. 

Torturers, maybe. That fancied better. Unjust vigilantes who had trouble letting go of their dirty past and fragile allegiance. Disgusting. Cruel enforcers of their very own laws that died with the cause of their undying loyalty belonged to, dead or not. Align with nothing, realign everything. 

They didn’t bother much with looking at each other. Seeing was believing, so if they just didn’t look down at themselves or the other, it might just be allowed to find actual comfort in the pain washing in crashing eighty-foot waves over the bond with each slow, ginger vent. 

Meant they were both miraculously still alive. So, the ceiling housed their optics and sheltered their sluggish thoughts and broken bodies from the batterings of their own processors. Maybe they could will it come crashing down. Take the Decepticon Justice Division deep under the ground with them. 

BBop attempted to count the number of bullet holes she could see. Eclipsed light poked through each one individualistically, exposing the dust ridden air surrounding. She cringed, maybe from pain, maybe from her realizing of the otherwise grim conditions she was laying in. 

As if that was a main concern. 

She counted, mostly, to distract from the pain she could register well from their all-too-open bond. Sure that meant that that stupid lightweight was still kickin’, as she anticipated. Every once in awhile she’d restart the counting, or attempt to count in different languages when the pain would interrupt the thought waves. Blue water to whitewater to eroded rocks she tossed like a seasick ship lured by sirens. 

All she wanted was to hold Streamline. Wanted her to be okay. Not feeling deep seeded agony from the depths of her back struts, where her wings used to sprout proudly from. Wanted to see her smiling instead of curled into herself in her own pooling energon, clutching around where her strengthening rib cage should’ve housed. 

Now, her build resembled more similar to a soda can. What was the difference between soda and pop, again? BBop couldn’t quite bring herself to remember, but at any rate...wait. Was there a difference? Pop can? Soda can? Same thing?

Oh, what she would do to rid her mind of the screams, the horrors on her face plate, the tank-wrenching sobs and the way Streamline’s knuckles pulled on the grates in the floor in a feeble attempt to get away. To deal with the pain she was powerless to do anything about. 

A little anger wouldn’t fix anything. That much was...rather new. 

Although their interrogation endeavors seemed to render themselves consistent at most oftentimes; therefore, it wasn’t any surprise. However, this much was new: their captors, no, torturers had merely continued just for the sport of it. They’d held some sort of vendetta that was invisible to...pretty much everyone. They knew about them long before they knew about themselves. There was alot she couldn’t make sense of, and perhaps that was due to the concussion rattling everything from the inside out, and the throbbing of her sparkbeat through her entire form—or whatever was left of it.

It took everything within Streamline not to glance over. But she didn’t. Couldn’t stand to see BBop sticky in her own energon, tears, and purge. 

What bothered most was the inability she had to just jump up, kick some Decepticon ass, and then call for medical help while she fiercely embraced her best friend. That’s how things were supposed to go. They’d figure it out. She’d cradle BBop’s helm, attempt to stop the bleeding, stay strong or as strong as possible. The whole nine-yards. 

They’d stubbornly make it like they always had. Ratty would probably chew them out. Say they were being too reckless but deep in his spark regarding them as children and that their behavior mostly made sense. 

BBop would be treated for her injuries while Stream’ would sleep with her head cradled on her own fore-servos on the bedside, and BBop could rest easy with their servos locked strong together. 

Primus—she just wanted to let them die. Allow themselves to both perish from the agony that ripped soundless screams from their waterfelled throats and itched and burned and sent shivers if they merely moved a mere digit. The movement of the air. All of it pushed new pain waves they’d never experienced before. 

Closed optics. Easy fell. Drift into an endless stasis of probably...icy water or something. Painless. Icy. Liquid. Possibly less tears. Preferably less pain. 

The wrecker’s pain tolerance had always been astoundingly high, and her adrenaline’s abilities generally never ceased to amaze when it came to masking pain when it really counted. But, by god, her screams. Please dear whatever GOD up there: erase those. Streamline never in her life heard BBop plead for her them to stop hurting her own body...and even through it all she still didn’t. That stubborn resolve flashing in her optics. She kept her intake shut. She wouldn’t spill anything except perhaps spit a denta or energon from her mouth. 

Sure, it hadn’t been their first interrogation, and BBop’d told countless ‘Cons to stop hurting others (that makes it sound like she asked nicely, which, in fact, she did NOT at ALL, but we digress), but….the eerie pleas this time around, still not for her own, rooted in desperation and regret...ripped at her chest cavity. 

Sobs that shook her entire frame as each individual armor was ripped from her body, the way energon sprayed like in the human horror movies.

Allow the feeling to end. Allow the sounds to end. 

Allow it to end. 

Criss cross. Criss cross. The steel responsible for the structural integrity above zig-zagged over and over again. Every once and awhile they’d multiply as their optics lulled in and out of focus, lazed by the absence of their visors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will i ever finish this? prob not.   
> hope u enjoy,,,,,

**Author's Note:**

> roses are red  
> bow down to thy master  
> you seem to be fast  
> but elmo is faster—
> 
> IM KIDDING LMAO,,,  
> leave kudos, comments, OR PROMPTS (!!!!) if you feel so inclined ♥️


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